


Let an Old Sinner Lie

by lsularak



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Bruises, Fractures, Hurt, Like, Little to no comfort, Mentions of Violence, No Blood, a smidge of comfort, also ok maybe theres like, also the punishers mention is like 1 line and super vague but i guess he deserved a tag, and comfort is a myth here, but its all (mostly) physical, do drugs count as comfort?, excessive hurt, for once, medicine?, my bad - Freeform, theres a lot of pain and not a lot of resolving the pain, whatever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 00:54:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18713182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lsularak/pseuds/lsularak
Summary: Matt just screamed. He woke up that morning and found that he hurt so much that there were no words; so, he just clenched his teeth andscreamed.Matt has a rough night and a rougher morning.





	Let an Old Sinner Lie

**Author's Note:**

> me; hey you should finish writing part 3 of that series you started  
> also me; more hurt and no comfort. do it, coward
> 
> well, you guys seem to like this stuff so i guess im. still writing this kinda stuff lmao  
> as always constructive criticism is appreciated!!
> 
> (also, sorry if it kinda like,, falls apart at the end. not gonna lie this has been sitting unfinished for a while and i decided to try and finish it tonight for some reason)

Matt just screamed. He woke up that morning and found that he hurt so much that there were no words; so, he just clenched his teeth and _screamed._ Even muffled it was ear-shattering, primal, and filled with unadulterated pain. It didn’t help nearly as much as Matt was hoping for, it felt like nothing ever could or would. Maybe it was time he took some of the drugs Claire smuggled out for him, but to do that he would have to _move_ and even though it would offer relief in the long-term, the pain to just get to the medicine was completely not worth it.  


He dared to roll over, to see if it would change the pain in his back to just a bit more manageable, and he nearly threw up. He managed to resist that, instead gagging. Sure, the gagging was about one muscle flex away from yielding disgusting results, but it was still just dry-heaving. God, it did end up helping, but the process itself was miserable. Clearly, he had damaged his back more than he realized, that crowbar must’ve come down with a lot more force than Matt felt at the time.  


He sure felt it now, his spine felt knocked out of alignment, he thought a few of his vertebrae were cracked along with his ribs, his entire back was _absolutely_ bruised and some of his chest too, and he was starting to think that maybe this was the worst day of his life. Every breath he dragged in hurt, cracked ribs creaking under the pressure, body screaming as his muscles flexed. Even just swallowing hurt, but there was nothing to be done about that, except maybe drinking some water. That may help, but once more, the cost of movement was too steep for Matt to voluntarily pay it. All he dared continue to do was breathe, think, and pray.  


Pray, pray for someone, _anyone_ – Hell, Matt would pray for the Goddamn _Punisher_ at this point – to save him. To somehow sense his pain and _do_ something about it. Even a mercy killing would be an appropriate save, anything was better than just lying there in pain. Matt couldn’t even meditate; he couldn’t drag deep enough breaths into his lungs and he was going to _cry_ , nothing was going to fix this if he didn’t move but moving felt like only a cruel trick God would play on Matt at this point.  


Matt would do it. He _would_ , if only he could make the pain subside a little bit. Just a little, even a fraction’s difference would mean the world to him, but it seemed so far out of reach. He had to move, he needed to call in and explain why he wouldn’t be there and he needed to convince Foggy that this stupid city would _not_ kill him and that he just –  


He just… nothing. This city _would_ kill him, and everyone knew it. He wouldn’t just be fine, he wouldn’t just keep going and keep fighting, wouldn’t just survive all of these injuries he was collecting; there was no way. Not with how Matt could hear one of his shoulders creaking eerily any time he shrugged, not with how he felt the bones in his feet grinding down under the immense strain they had on them, not with how his knuckles were so battered and broken that he could no longer remember their original shape; and certainly not with how he could already feel his spine beginning healing just an iota differently than it should be. That iota was going to screw him over, he could tell, but that worry was for later; right now, Matt just needed to get some drugs.  


He let out a strangled scream as he tried to push himself up, tears springing up into his eyes and rolling down his face. He tried to push through it, he really did, but when his spine straightened enough for any weight to rest on the broken vertebrae, he decided that getting up was _probably_ a horrible decision, given that he may or may not have lost consciousness for a minute there (he did.)  


Matt decided that not moving, ever again he hoped, was the best course of not-action. He left himself in the position he had landed in, shallow breaths creeping through his body shakily. It was the best he could do, given the circumstances, and he decided that was enough. He doubted sleep would come to him, not with the dangerous shift of bone joining every inhale and exhale, and that made it so much worse. He couldn’t even sleep off his suffering, he had to stay awake until he could drag himself far enough for pain medication. If he managed that, _if_ , he mused, he would likely just sleep on the floor of the bathroom. It would certainly cover all of his bases; medication, running water, and a toilet. He would have to drag his covers in there with himself, of course, and that would be a task all on its own, but it would probably be easier on him. Sure, the floor would do no favors for his back, but it already felt like someone had peeled the skin off and began plucking at the fibers of his muscles for fun, so how much worse could a little stiffness be?  


(The answer was a lot worse, Matt discovered later that day, when he had passed out on the floor of his bathroom in an uncomfortable position.)  


He managed to coax himself to the edge of his bed, body splitting apart piece by piece with every twitch, and he wondered if God would do him a favor and just smite him already. Matt felt like he was in Hell early, and he had no chance of getting out. No chance of getting help, no chance of the Devil breaking out and being able to aid Matt. No chances, none at all. So, of course, God wouldn’t just go on and smite Matt. Matt was _meant_ for Hell, with the Devil and all, so it stood to reason God would leave him there.  


No matter, Matt could brave the fire, he could brave the pain. He just… would really rather not. But since when had the world cared for what Matt wanted?  


(Hint; the answer was never, and it never would.)  


Matt was ready to die by the time he got to the floor and had dragged himself and a sheet just a few feet. It was excruciating, to say the least. To say the _most_ , though? It was miserable. It was fire and ice and everything and nothing all at once, it was pain and it was relentless, and Matt was synonymous with these feelings. Matt was the pain ripping his body apart from the inside, he was the dread of never being painless again.  


He was getting repetitive, but there were no other words. None to describe it, and how could he describe that the pain was _worse_ than it was moments ago when he could not describe the original pain? He couldn’t, and that was that.  


So, with the pain wrapping his whole body like a blanket, Matt dragged on.  


He couldn’t tell you on his own how he made it to his bathroom, how he ended up splayed out on the ground in front of his sink with a sheet loosely draped over himself, but he could tell you it likely involved divine intervention (it had to, there was no way he made it alone, no way at all.) Matt was grateful for the intervention, and took it as the gift it was. Suspicious, but grateful. He was happy to have made it, and even happier to know that pain medicine was finally, _finally_ within reach. But he would wait. Wait to take the medication, because he was trained to be that way, because he forced himself to be that way. He would wait, just to make sure he really needed it, to make sure he wasn’t wasting it on something he would be fine with, because what if he _really_ needed it –  


The pain ripping through his spine once more was sign enough that he did, in fact, need medication. Forget waiting, forget _restraint_ , Matt wanted to be free of pain. With a shaking hand, Matt managed to find the bottle of medicine. Thank God he kept his more powerful medication tucked away under everything, he could reach it from the floor. Easier to reach, yes, not easier to open, though. He did manage it, thank God, – thank God thank God thank _God_ – and he got a pill out, swallowing it as quickly as he was physically capable. He didn’t bother to re-cap the bottle, leaving it open off to his side as he tried to get comfortable while the medication did its best to work.  


He wasn’t going to get comfortable, not _really_ , he knew, but it was better than nothing, and as he waited for the medicine to dull the searing pain, he prayed.

Maybe God would let an old sinner lie.


End file.
